


Your only mistake is if you stand still

by redjacket



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redjacket/pseuds/redjacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre never expected les amis to stay as close as they had been in college. The world, unfortunately, did not work that way. He knew that. They all knew that.</p><p>He had not expected them to fall apart so fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It had stopped snowing by the time Combeferre left the clinic. The last of the protesters had cleared out, put off by the storm, and they had managed to fit all their patients in even short handed. It had been a good day. Combeferre was glad he had come in, despite everything, but it had also been a long one. He ignored the nagging guilt and flagged down a cab instead of taking the subway. He wanted to be home and warm and with his husband.

But his husband wasn’t at home. He had texted hours ago, to let Combeferre know he was having dinner with Joly, after his session, and of the three, Combeferre wanted to be with him most tonight.

The Musain was as bright and welcoming as always when they pulled up outside, if not nearly as full as usual. He paid the cab driver but didn't ask him to stay. As tired as he was, he could never be sure they would leave right away. A wave of warmth and the smell of coffee nearly overwhelmed him when he walked through the door. It smelled as much of home as their apartment did and he could feel himself relax as the door closed behind him, even if tonight it made his glasses fog up immediately, obscuring his vision as he looked for his friends.

There was a low warm chuckle to his left and someone snatches his glasses off and kissed his cheek. He could make out a dark, female shaped blur and smile. "Evening, 'Chetta."

"When you say overtime you really mean it," Musichetta said.

"It was worth it," Combeferre replied.

"I don't doubt it," Musichetta said. She handed him his glasses back, clean. He blinked in confusion when he could see again. Their normal table was empty.

"They're in the back," Musichetta told him, smiling. "We had a big crowd of college kids taking shelter from the storm earlier, Joly nearly had a fit, and they were too lazy to move once they left."

Combeferre laughed. "I'm not surprised."

"We're not that old yet," Musichetta said, swatting him with her towel. She grabbed his arm when he smiled and tried to head to the back, forcing a hot chocolate on him before she let him go.

Joly and Grantaire were in the sagging arm chairs at the back, which Joly periodically demanded be replaced to no avail. He looked relaxed enough now, leaning half out of his seat and laughing with Grantaire, their heads bent together. It made Combeferre's smile widen.

Then Grantaire looked up, spotted him, and visibly brightened.

"Hey!" he called, and then he was up, taking the hot chocolate from Combeferre and dragging him back to join them. He took Combeferre's coat and threw it into a heap with his and Joly's, pushed Combeferre into a chair and went to drag a new one over for himself. Combeferre caught his wrist and dragged him down into the chair with him. Grantaire didn’t resist.

"You look tired," Grantaire said, craning his neck to look at him properly.

Combeferre leaned in and kissed him instead of answering. Grantaire tasted like coffee and cigarettes. He must have needed a smoke after therapy.  

"Hi," Combeferre said, when they broke apart. His fingers curled around Grantaire's hip. Grantaire was very warm against him.

"Hi," Grantaire responded and there was laughter in his voice. He ran his thumb along Combeferre's jaw line. "You're very tired."

"Yes," Combeferre said. He took a sip of his hot chocolate and smiled at Grantaire's raised eyebrow. "I'll finish this so Musichetta doesn't come after me. Then we'll go home."

Grantaire huffed but it was soft and indulgent. "Fine."

Joly just grinned at them and carried on with his story — some new catastrophe that had befallen Bossuet in the kitchen earlier — as Grantaire's arm snuck around Combeferre's shoulders. Combeferre took another drink of his hot chocolate, then turned and pressed his face against Grantaire's neck. He smelled of the Musain and paint and very faintly of cigarettes and very strongly of home.

It took less than a minute for Combeferre to fall asleep with his head against Grantaire’s shoulder.

"Hey," Grantaire was saying, his hand in Combeferre's hair as he gently shook him awake.

Combeferre blinked his eyes open and looked up at him. Grantaire was smirking. His mug of hot chocolate was gone and Joly was helping Musichetta put the chairs up. Combeferre sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry," he said.

Grantaire just grinned and hauled him to his feet. "Don't be. It was a long day. You're tired."

"I didn't think I was that tired," Combeferre groused.

Grantaire just laughed and kissed him lightly. He was already in his coat, and helped Combeferre into his. He fixed Combeferre's scarf for him and Combeferre let him because he was tired and he liked it when Grantaire fussed over him, even though Grantaire would never admit it to doing it. 

Grantaire caught the soft look on Combeferre's face and rolled his eyes at him but he kissed him again too and put his hand on Combeferre's back, waving to Musichetta and Joly as they left.

"See you Saturday," he called, clearly already having said his goodbyes. Combeferre gave a wave but he was content to let Grantaire pull him along.

The blast of cold as the left was strong enough to wake Combeferre. He shivered once at the bite of it and Grantaire tilted his head closer.

"We can get a cab," he offered, though Combeferre knew he preferred walking, especially on nights like this.

Combeferre shook his head as he tucked his gloved hands into his pockets. "It's not far."

Grantaire considered him for a moment and nodded, tucking his hand into Combeferre's pocket as well. Grantaire's insulated leather coat and gloves were warmer than Combeferre's — presents from Joly last Christmas because he didn't trust Grantaire to dress himself warmly enough and knew he would wear anything Joly gave him — but Combeferre's pockets were larger.

It was strangely quiet out. It had stopped snowing but the streets hadn't been cleared yet, leaving them silent and crisp and clear. They didn't speak to each other. They didn't need to. Grantaire's body bumped into Combeferre's every few steps, his familiar rhythm, and he smiled to himself, looking around. Combeferre swore he could see the paintings coming to life in his head as they walked. Combeferre couldn't take his eyes off him. He watched as Grantaire turned his head and craned his neck to the left, looking down an alley piled deep with snow. Their pace slowed, briefly, as Grantaire looked and Combeferre knew he was seeing something different than what Combeferre saw: an alley, some trash cans, the snow covering everything. Something that would become at least a sketch, maybe a painting, if Combeferre guessed right. He would recognize it and remember being in the moment with Grantaire but it would be so much more than what Combeferre saw, under Grantaire’s hands.

After another moment, Grantaire turned back to Combeferre and flushed, like he always did when he found Combeferre just watching, but he smiled now too. Combeferre squeezed Grantaire’s hand. They kept walking.

It struck him suddenly, how certain he was that they would be here again, walking home side by side, their bodies bumping together because they couldn’t seem to stay apart. Combeferre looked at Grantaire and saw the tiny flecks of silver that had recently dotted his temples spreading through the rest of his hair, the lines at the edges of his mouth and the corners of his eyes deepening. He felt his hand pressed in his pocket in ten years, in twenty, in thirty. He hadn’t bought a winter coat without pockets big enough to fit both their hands in years. He knew he never would again.

His chest ached, almost painful. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes and held Grantaire’s hand tighter than before. Grantaire looked at him questioningly and leaned his body more firmly into Combeferre’s when nothing was said. They stayed that way until they got home, coats half off, and Grantaire had to break away to pet their dog — they had been out after dark, clearly to her the world was coming to an end. Combeferre threw his keys in the bowl and unwrapped his scarf, watching them for a moment.

Grantaire stood up, the dog reassured, and stepped into Combeferre’s space. Combeferre’s arms came up automatically, wrapping them both in his coat. They had stood like this before, when Grantaire wore thinner coats and drank too much to feel the cold and Combeferre would do his best to keep him warm.

“What?” Grantaire asked. “You’re not just tired.”

“Nothing,” Combeferre said, because Grantaire knew him, and when they didn’t have to speak it was because they knew what the other would say, but Combeferre always said these words aloud to Grantaire. “I just love you very much.”

Grantaire’s smile was blinding and beautiful. Combeferre hugged him, tightly, or maybe Grantaire was hugging him, Combeferre wasn’t sure. He knew that Grantaire’s face was pressed against his shoulder and that Grantaire’s hair smelled cold and clean from the walk home and that Grantaire always felt as right in his arms as he did in Grantaire’s.

“I love you,” he said again, lips pressed against Grantaire’s temple.

He felt Grantaire’s smile. “I love you too.”

They stayed there for a minute. Then another.

The dog whined at them and barked.

Grantaire huffed a laugh and pulled back. His hand tangled in the hair at the back of Combeferre’s neck. “You need to go to bed before you fall over.”

“I’ve pulled longer shifts,” Combeferre reminded him.

“You’ve been five years younger too. And Coufeyrac promised Evan we’d go to the zoo with them tomorrow. You know how he gets. You’ll need your energy, old man,” Grantaire said. Combeferre rolled his eyes at him. Grantaire laughed and kissed him against the door as he was trying to take off his shoes.

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire said, smirking. “I still love you.”

Combeferre swatted at his hip. Grantaire just grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. He pushed Combeferre into bed as soon as he was undressed and quickly crawled in after him.

“I need to brush my teeth,” Combeferre said, mildly.

“Mmm hmm,” Grantaire answered.

Neither of them moved to get up. Grantaire shifted, turning onto his side and pulling Combeferre’s arm around his waist. Combeferre pressed against his back, his thumb stroking on idle pattern against Grantaire’s sternum.

“Do you remember what day it is?” Combeferre asked quietly.

Grantaire’s hand covered his and his fingers smoothed over Combeferre’s ring. “First time you proposed.”

“Mmm. Thank you for saying yes,” Combeferre said, kissing the back of Grantaire’s neck. "Both times I asked."

He could tell Grantaire was smiling as he laced their fingers together.

“Thanks for asking.”


	2. Chapter 1

Combeferre never expected _les Amis_ to stay as close as they had been in college. The world, unfortunately, did not work that way. He knew that. They all knew that.

He had not expected them to fall apart so fast.

Enjolras, of course, was the first to go. He left two day after graduation to begin his job with Human Rights Watch. The last Combeferre heard, he was in Colombia. He occasionally emailed but the tentative plan for him to return after eight-months abroad had fallen through his first week on the ground. Combeferre doubted he would be returning for more than a short visit in a very long time.

Courfeyrac was...around. Combeferre saw him occasionally. He was still technically pursuing a law degree but mostly he was enjoying himself and his parents wealth. Combeferre didn’t begrudge him it, exactly, but without the focus of _les Amis_ — and Enjolras’ glare — he had become somewhat neglectful of those around him. It wasn’t malicious, Coufeyac remained his extremely kind-hearted self and would be horrified if he realized how many times he had left Combeferre stranded because he had become distracted and forgotten to let him know their plans had changed. Between med school and work, Combeferre simply hadn’t had time to bring it to his attention.

Theoretically, he should be seeing more of Joly, since the were attending the same school. And he did see him, rushing past on his way out of the building, mostly. They sat together in their shared lectures. Outside of classes, however, Joly had plenty to occupy his time while Combeferre...didn’t. Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet all had their own demanding lives, when they had spare moments, they spent them with each other. Combeferre could hardly blame them for that.

Feuilly, putting himself through law school, had even less free time than Combeferre. They had a standing chess match on Sundays — though Feuilly occasionally had to cancel — but he was working nights and Combeferre did not like cutting into the few hours of sleep he got on weekdays.  

Bahorel had gone to Thailand for a graduation trip, then hitch-hiked across Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam before following a girl to Australia.

Jehan had disappeared, briefly, though Combeferre knew he had been in touch with at least Grantaire during that time. Combeferre knew he was back in the city but hadn’t seen him.

Marius and Cosette were consumed with wedding plans. Eponine was avoiding everyone as a result.

And Grantaire...Grantaire was the person trying hardest to keep them together.

It had surprised Combeferre at first. It didn't surprise him that Grantaire wanted them to stay together — for all that he claimed to care for nothing, Grantaire loved his friends dearly, sometimes desperately, though he tried hard not to show it — but that he kept trying, even when plans failed, and that he was the only one who really was. Unfortunately, Grantaire was having as much luck keeping them together as much as Combeferre was.

Combeferre stood outside Grantaire’s building and scrolled through the list of cancellations for their dinner tonight. Grantaire had arranged it weeks ago, gone back and forth on dates and nagged everyone until they agreed and then, throughout the day today, group texts had come in, one by one, until Combeferre didn't even want to look at his phone anymore. Everyone had cancelled but him and Courfeyrac...and Courfeyrac had sent Combeferre a blurry picture of himself drunk on a yacht half an hour ago. Combeferre doubted he was coming.

The same thing had happened the last time Grantaire had tried to organize a dinner for the group. It had been awkward, the two of them sitting at a table set for eight, at least the time before that Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet had attended. Grantaire had covered it well but Combeferre could tell that it hurt him, much more than it hurt Combeferre.

Well.

That wasn’t entirely true. It was simply less destructive to disappear behind a barricade of books than into the bottom of a bottle when the disappointment became difficult to deal with.

Combeferre sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. This dinner had not fit his schedule well, he was just coming off a shift, but he had agreed to it because it was the only date everyone else could make.

His phone pinged.

**[Grantaire]:** _Cancelled the reservation. Don’t worry about it._

Combeferre frowned. He could go home and collapse into bed, get up early tomorrow. He could use the extra sleep and it meant he might wake up in time to go for a run before it got too hot outside. He had an out.

He didn't want one.

A girl pushed passed him, overloaded with groceries. Comebeferre held the door for her, offered to help with her bags and didn’t take it personally when she turned him down, just held the next door open for her as well before taking the sagging stairs up to Grantaire’s apartment and knocked on his door.

Grantaire looked as exhausted as Combeferre felt when he opened the door. He looked surprised but not...shocked. Grantaire never expected anyone to want to spend time with just him but Combeferre knew he was thought of as the most reliable among them. He hadn't missed one of the outings Grantaire planned yet.

“I cancelled the reservation,” Grantaire said. “We’ll reschedule with everyone...sometime. I don’t know.”

“I got your text,” Combeferre said. “Would you like to come to dinner with me anyway?”

Grantaire gave a rough laugh and slouched against the door frame. His lips twisted into a tight smile and the bags under his eyes suddenly seemed very pronounced. “It’s fine, Combeferre. I’m fine. I don’t need pity.”

“We both need to eat,” Combeferre said. He felt his shoulders slump and frowned slightly. He was more exhausted by this — not Grantaire, Grantaire was the only thing that was not exhausting him in that moment — than he thought. “I was looking forward to tonight as well. I haven't been out in...well, it's been an embarrassingly long time."

Grantaire hadn't looked away from his face since he opened the door — Combeferre was glad, Grantaire never met anyone's eyes on his bad days — but he looked at him particularly closely for a moment...and deflected with a sarcastic smile, as was his wont. "No invitation to the yacht?"

"I'm sure it got lost somewhere," Combeferre said, returning the smile with more earnestness than sarcasm. As grateful for the sleep as he would have been, the thought of going another week on take out for one was not pleasant. "I can't say I would find it as enjoyable as dinner with a friend, either."

Grantaire rolled his eyes at that, unwilling to take it as the compliment it was meant to be. "Come in. I'll change into something without paint on it. I would say sorry about the mess but I wouldn't mean it."

"I don't mind paint...oh," Combeferre said, following Grantaire inside and discovering that by something without paint on it, he meant he wasn't wearing any pants. His boxers were smeared with yellow and red.  

"Yeah, the restaurant might," Grantaire said, laughing a little as he disappeared into his bedroom. "I started to get ready and then figured fuck it...anyway. Just give me minute."

Combeferre waited. Grantaire's apartment was exactly as he remembered it. It wasn't neat or particularly clean but most of the dirt appeared to be charcoal, pencil shavings and paint. There were canvases stacked and hung in various places, in various states of completion. There was one relatively art table next to an easel. There were photos spread out on one side and materials lining the other. It was rather obviously where Grantaire had been working before Combeferre interrupted.

He was glad to see it. It worried Combeferre when Grantaire stopped wanting to create. Even when he couldn’t stand himself or what he was creating, what he felt for his work was always intense. Blocks in his creative process had always unfailing lead to spectacular arguments with Enjolras when they were in college and equally spectacular, wine-fuelled, painful work. When he was apathetic about his art, when he didn’t care that he wasn’t even doodling, Combeferre worried. The last time Grantaire had gotten that low, he had dropped out of college for a year and nearly died of alcohol poisoning twice. He had re-enrolled when he could — the art department hadn't had space for him until the Winter semester so he spent the Fall fulfilling his liberal studies requirements taking, the same politics courses as Enjolras and driving him mad — and was set to graduate in the Fall, a year and a half after the rest of them.

But Combeferre still found himself smiling when he walked into Grantaire's space and he was so obviously in the midst of creating.

Grantaire came out of the bedroom in a clean, if baggy, t-shirt and ripped jeans. He was towelling off his hair. He looked as if he had stuck his head under the facet. His face was mostly clear of paint, there was still a smudge of red at his temple, but the streaks of yellow and white in his hair hasn't budged.

"Thai okay?" Grantaire asked, grabbing his keys. He looked at Combeferre expectantly, smiling slightly but genuinely. Combeferre felt lighter than he had in weeks.

"Yes," Combeferre said. He had had Thai for dinner three days in a row. He didn't care. As he waited for Grantaire to lock his door, he was struck by the urge to thank him.

He didn't. Grantaire wouldn't accept it, though Combeferre thought he might understand. Instead, he said: "I finished that Robertson Davies book you lent me."

Grantaire's smile turned positively gleeful. "Oh! _Well_..."

—

Grantaire called Combeferre two days later and left a voicemail: "I'm going to be in your neighbourhood in a couple days shooting an engagement. Want to grab dinner?"

Combeferre called the next week, after Feuilly had to cancel their match. He didn't say the words, "I'm lonely," but he thought Grantaire heard them anyway. They went for coffee. Combeferre didn't want to go home after, so he walked Grantaire back to his apartment. They ended up having dinner together.

It quickly became a habit

They got together at least once a week, most often more. Combeferre knew he was calling more frequently than Grantaire. Grantaire called because he had something he wanted to share with Combeferre — “There’s this exhibit opening...” “I’ve got to do this project in the park and I need someone to smile politely at my jokes about the tourists...” “This girl I go to school with did some scenery shit on her internship and can snag us rush seats for...” “Listen, this is out of left field but how do you feel about Coney Island?” — Combeferre called Grantaire because he caught himself listening for the sound of his voice if they didn’t see each other for a few days. The texts — Grantaire had started sending him photos of everything — weren’t enough.

Grantaire, Combeferre now knew, was having more luck staying in touch with everyone else, if not getting them together as a group. He had a standing invitation to dinner at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's on the nights the three of them were home and Joly texted him their schedule at the beginning of each week to make sure he would be there. If he missed two weeks worth of dinners, Joly would turn up on his doorstep fretting. Grantaire never let that happen. They had always taken care of each other, Grantaire and Joly. They had known each other since childhood. Joly dragged Grantaire to his first A _mis_ meeting. Grantaire had introduced Musichetta to Joly immediately after meeting her — Bossuet had introduced himself by tripping out of a window and landing sprawled at Joly’s feet — and for a long time Grantaire had been the only person who could tell on the rare occasion one of Joly’s hypochondriac panics became something he couldn’t laugh off. He had taught Bossuet and Musichetta how to talk him down from his occasional panic attacks.

And during the worst months of their second year, Joly had moved out of the apartment he shared with Bossuet to stay with Grantaire. There had been weeks when they hadn't seen Joly at all, he would only leave Grantaire's side to go to class and sometimes not even then, and even more days when Grantaire would only leave his apartment when Joly coaxed him out, staying within arms reach of Grantaire at all times, when it would be Grantaire who grabbed for Joly's hand and Joly who ran his hand up and down Grantaire's arm to soothe him. When Grantaire could stand having other people around, Bossuet and Musichetta had simply moved themselves in. By third-year, the four of them were sharing an apartment.

Combeferre liked watching Grantaire around them. He had always liked watching Grantaire — all his friends, really — in situations he thrived in and Grantaire was happiest in their company. They all touched constantly; it reminded Combeferre painfully of the way Courfeyrac was with him and Enjolras and how much he missed them. If Grantaire's arm or hand was in reach, Joly was holding it, and they leaned into each other so frequently they half of _les Amis_ had mistaken them for boyfriends when Joly first brought Grantaire along with him. Joly, hugged Grantaire often, too, hard, and seemingly randomly. Bossuet leaned into Grantaire was well and tended to hook his legs around Grantaire's when they were sitting together, inevitably tripping when he went to get up. Musichetta just embraced him, and kissed his cheek and linked her arm in his. They danced around each other in the kitchen — Grantaire was the only person Musichetta allowed to help her cook, dragging him in by the arm as soon as he arrived. They talked and laughed and argued and then Musichetta would start to sing when she really got going and the way Grantaire smiled and laughed with her...

Combeferre enjoyed those dinners very much, once Grantaire started bringing him along.

And it wasn’t just them. Combeferre arrived at Grantaire’s one afternoon to find Jehan cocooned in blankets, fast asleep on Grantaire’s couch and a schedule for his poetry readings suddenly turned up in Combeferre's phone. Cosette crashed their Sunday morning breakfasts — which tended to happen in the early afternoon with Grantaire spotting his darkest sunglasses — to have minor meltdowns about wedding colours or flowers or the guest list — Marius had made Grantaire a groomsman so Cosette couldn’t claim him for a bridesmaid like she threatened to — before revealing, with a wink, that Grantaire had several paintings in the upcoming senior student exhibition while Grantaire flushed and tried to shrug it off.

It was important, though. Grantaire technically shouldn’t have been in the senior show. He wouldn’t be able to graduate until the Fall and the requirements he still needed to meet included a studio class. A couple of his professors had petitioned for his inclusion and pressed the Dean about it when he waffled.

Combeferre thought it was worth marking the occasion. All of them. Together.

Combeferre called Cosette as soon as Grantaire had gone home. He wanted back up and knew Cosette was an enthusiastic, unstoppable, steamroller when she wanted something done. She tracked down Jehan and went to Eponine’s apartment to persuade her to come. Combeferre called Feuilly and put the date in Courfeyrac’s phone himself, calling twice to remind him. Joly had known about it in advance, of course, Musichetta had it marked in red on their calendar.

Grantaire rolled his eyes when he found out everyone was planning to attend, tried to brush it off as not important, but flushed a little when Combeferre told him and drank less from his hip flask while they were at the gallery even though Combefere could tell he was intensely uncomfortable the entire night. 

It was the first time they all got together in nearly seven months.

They went back to Courfeyrac’s apartment after. He was in his element playing host, as if they hadn’t all drifted apart at all, and Combeferre thought he looked happier than he had seen him in some time. He thought maybe they all did. It couldn’t be like it had been, living in each other’s back pockets just wasn’t possible anymore, but holding on to each other was worth it, Combeferre thought, and, at least on that evening, it felt like everyone else did as well.

Despite the success of the evening, or, Combeferre thought, because of it, Grantaire got thoroughly drunk by the end of the night. He had stolen sips from his flask during the show, when Joly could cover for him, frowning, and reaching over to squeeze his hand tightly as Grantaire wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Positive attention made Grantaire anxious, Combeferre knew. He didn’t expect it. He expected people to laugh at him, to look at him and find him wanting. He didn’t trust praise. It made him feel like a fraud.

Combeferre didn’t say anything when he pulled a bottle of vodka out of his backpack in the parking lot after the show and did two quick shots before the others joined them. He continued at a steady pace when they got to Courfeyrac’s, ending up propped between Joly and Combeferre, cheerful but starting to rant a little, and slurring his words. He stumbled when he tried to stand to punctuate a point — he was making ruder and ruder comments that made Marius blush, Eponine egg him on and Cosette and Musichette exchange concerned glances.  Combeferre took him home after a whispered conversation with Joly. Grantaire went easily enough, still smiling, but they knew how quickly he could fade to melancholy if he was left alone as drunk as he was. He fell asleep on Combeferre’s shoulder on the subway and leaned heavily into his side during the walk to his apartment, humming tunelessly, still pleased.

“This isn’t my bed,” Grantaire declared, grinning sloppily but not trying to get up when Combeferre sat him on the edge of his bed and pulled his shoes off.

“No,” Combeferre said, putting his shoes aside. “Tell me you’re wearing boxers.”

“Mmm hmm,” Grantaire hummed and giggled. He pulled Combeferre’s glasses off and put them on, blinking owlishly.

Combeferre chuckled. “I need those.”

He took them back. Grantaire smiled at him. Combeferre smiled back. He could no longer stop himself from responding to Grantaire’s smiles.

“Lie back,” he said and pushed lightly at Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire hit the bed with a whump and giggled some more. Combeferre pulled his jeans off. He was relieved to find that Grantaire was, indeed, wearing boxers.

“Okay, up,” Combeferre said, lifting Grantaire’s legs onto the bed and swinging him around.

“Woah,” Grantaire said, going pale at the sudden movement. “Bad idea. Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” Combeferre said. He had already made Grantaire drink two glasses of water. He left a third on the bedside table and pulled up the covers. “Get some sleep now, okay?”

“Mmm, hey,” Grantaire said, suddenly reaching out to catch Combeferre’s wrist. His eyes cracked open and he looked at Combeferre blearily. “Thanks. Thanks for...”

He flushed and swallowed thickly. He looked so impossibly unguarded for a moment. Combeferre nearly sat back down and had to fight back the urge to run his fingers through Grantaire’s hair and tell him it was all right.  

Grantaire blinked twice and managed a shaky grin, mumbling: “I owe you breakfast tomorrow, k?”

Combeferre felt light and heavy all at once. He smiled and permitted himself to stroke Grantaire’s hair, just once. Grantaire’s eyes were already closing. “Okay. Sleep well, R.”

Grantaire hummed and let Combeferre’s hand fall away when he stepped back.

Combeferre settled on the couch. He stayed awake just long enough to make sure Grantaire wouldn’t wake up again and be sick. He had never been one to brood and he didn’t now. He had been falling in love with Grantaire for some time, he hadn’t done anything to stop it. He hadn’t wanted to.

Now, it was time to do something about it.

—

“Oh god,” Grantaire groaned, snatching the student paper away from Combeferre and shoving into the trash. “Don’t read that horseshit. You know better.”

Combeferre grinned, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I heard you made the review of the summer show as well, which, given you're not in the first-years’ summer show..."

Grantaire shoot him a look and shoved a copy of USA today at him. “Here, equally as asinine. Have at it.”

Combeferre laughed and opened the paper, mostly for show. He watched as Grantaire washed his hands and went back to peer into the oven.

“I know you hate the student press,” Combeferre said, trying to make his gaze more unobtrusive as Grantaire turned to glare at him. “I didn’t think they hated you enough for it to be commented on.”

"I'd say I didn't read it but I, fuck it, I did. I am obsessed with my own, mediocre press, because I am a masochist who likes knowing what people say about my behind my back. My ears feel best when they’re burning.”

“It said you were part of a mediocre piece of performance art,” Combeferre said.

“Lies. My performance was, as always, brilliant. If it went over that jackhole reviewers head, I can hardly be blamed.”

“You never did tell me what the fight was about,” Combeferre commented quietly, looking at Grantaire directly instead of from under his eyelashes. He had flour smudged on his cheek, a little crumbled off as he moved around the kitchen, and pink and purple food colouring stained his nails.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and went back to squeezing bright pink icing onto the chocolate-mint cupcake he was concocting for Cosette’s bridal shower. “They first-year, self-important asshole they sent to cover the show cornered Jeannie — you know, short with the dark hair? She wears the overalls and the big sweat shirts but is kind of a knock out? Anyway, he cornered Jeannie in the back hallway after she told him she didn’t want to go out with him and tired to and ‘persuade’ her. Because that’s perfectly acceptable. That’s not rapist in training behaviour at all. She was so pissed off but she didn’t know what to do because he was ‘press’ and she wanted a good review. She was in tears.”

“So you punched him.”

“No,” Grantaire said and smirked. “Michaels and I aggressively hit on him for the rest of the night.”

“What?”

“Michaels decided to give him a taste of his own medicine and I went along with it because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being aggressively annoying when I’m drunk. Also, flirting with no hope of it being returned. Jeannie loved it,” Grantaire said. “But then dickwad freaked the fuck out and, well, you've met Michaels, he's like 90 lbs soaking wet. He looks like the least threatening person I've ever met. He looks less threatening than Jehan."

"Jehan is the opposite of unthreatening."

Grantaire grinned. "So's Michaels. But asshole caught him off guard when he exploded. Honestly, I was being more annoying about it because, hello, I’m me. But I guess I also look like I’d deck a guy. Because I can. Michaels couldn't keep a straight face. He kept giggling. Michaels just asked, for about the fifth time, if he was sure he didn't want that blow job. And he flipped. Started screaming his head off and shoved Michaels. I got between them and he tried to punch me, which didn't work, because I lived with fucking Bahorel for a semester, surprise punching someone is a sign of affection for him, and then Michaels floored him."

"And then security came."

"Sort of? McNeil had things under control before they got there. You remember McNeil, right?"

"Oh yes. You introduced me at your show. That must have been an interesting experience for the...reporter."

"She was lecturing him on rape culture when security arrived and decided they needed to hear it as well. She was livid about the piece in the paper. She went and had a chat with the editor but, well, guys a douche so I doubt anything will happen. And security decided we were equally to blame so Michaels and I got a good stern talking to from the Dean. He would’ve liked to have given me the boot, I think, but McNeil insisted on attending and, fuck, it was worth it just to watch him squirm every time she gave him the death glare. End result, bitchy piece in the paper by the asshole who was basically completely undisciplined — don't give me that look, I know, I know, oppression, unfair, whatever. They didn't expel us. Michaels got to punch the guy, I got into a drunken fight in the gallery, and the asshole learned exactly nothing, judging by the review. I am shocked. It’s a fitting almost end to my academic career."

Combeferre could have said a great many things, none of which Grantaire would appreciate. He folded the paper he had not been reading back up and placed it to the side. Grantaire was not comfortable being watched while he worked. Combeferre liked to at least pretended that he wasn't even when he was quite content to sit and watch Grantaire move around the kitchen and listen to him rant.

"I can't argue with that," Combeferre said. "Bahorel would be proud."

“Fucker was disappointed he missed it,” Grantaire said, grinning.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow in question. Grantaire flushed slightly, barely noticeable, aware now, that Combeferre’s attention was fully on him. That had been happening more lately. It made Combeferre want to frame Grantaire’s face and trace it’s paths with his finger tips. “I texted him after I texted you. There was a lot of interesting autocorrect. He was swearing about missing my last college brawl — I got into my first bar fight in college because of him, you know — except his phone wouldn’t let him say fuck and that just made him angry. I’m not sure if he gave up or, you know, Bahorel smashed it.”

Combeferre laughed and watched the smile spread over Grantaire’s face until they were both just looking at each other, smiling. Then Grantaire realized it and turned away quickly, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Uh,” he said, looking for something to do with his hands, with himself. “Here, try this," Grantaire demanded, shoving a spoonful of bright purple whipped icing at Combeferre. Combeferre and Feuilly had been the main recipients of his cupcake experiments. Cosette only got the final product.

Combeferre obliged. It was delicious and he said so. Grantaire flushed again. Combeferre was reminded, with a sharp pang of fear and hope, of the way Grantaire used to act around Enjolras at first. Enjolras, oblivious to even the most unsubtle crush, hadn’t noticed Grantaire as anything more than Joly’s somewhat unreliable friend — even as he became more and more part of their little group — until Grantaire started arguing with him. Combeferre remembered, somewhat sadly, the shocked, almost pleased look on Grantaire’s face the first time Enjolras responded to his baiting, the first time he really paid attention to him.

"It's just icing. It's not that good," Grantaire mumbled, checking on the filling he had left in the fridge for the next batch — he was using Combeferre's kitchen because it was better than his and Combeferre had long ago given up on cooking for himself.  

"It is that good. Cosette will be very happy," Combeferre said. He waited until Grantaire came back to the counter. He was testing the consistency of the filling, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated, and Combeferre needed to let himself say what he had been thinking in these quiet little moments for months: "I would very much like to kiss you right now."

Grantaire froze. He looked up at Combeferre with wide eyes. Combeferre waited. After a moment, Grantaire tried to smile. "The icing definitely isn't that good."

"R..."

"Just," Grantaire interrupted, holding his hand up. "Just. Give me a minute, okay?"

"Of course," Combeferre said. He waited, watching as Grantaire put the icing and filling away and wiping his hands on his jeans. He took a beer out of the fridge, stared at it a moment, then drank half in one go.

Combeferre said nothing.

Grantaire rubbed his hand over his face and turned to look at him. His face was so strangely still that Combeferre's chest suddenly felt tight and heavy.

"Grantaire,” Combeferre said, then stopped. There were so many things he wanted to say that he couldn't. Grantaire wouldn’t believe him. He never believed it when someone tried to praise him.

“I value your friendship very highly and I would never wish to jeopardize that,” Combeferre began slowly. “I have feelings for you and want, very much, to explore that with you. I would like to be with you, in all ways. I would not have brought it up if I didn’t think there was a chance you might feel something more for me too. If you don’t, we don’t have to speak of it again. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to as well.”

Grantaire laughed dryly and ran a hand through his hair. He looked pained. "It's hard to put this kind of thing back in the metaphorical bottle."

He very deliberately put his beer bottle and came back to stand at the counter across from Combeferre. He looked serious and a bit...sheepish. "It's not...I'm not saying I don't want...that. It's just. I'm not sure you... I don't know...Look. You know about, my feelings. For Enjolras. From College."

"Yes, I do," Combeferre said, because he did and he had thought about it, extensively. He had wanted to make sure he was okay with it, before he ever broached the subject with Grantaire. "I understand, if some of that — or all of that — remains. I wouldn't ask you to hide that or even forsake it. I am asking if you think you would have room enough in your affections for me."

Grantaire stared at Combeferre for a moment, obviously surprised. His face softened into something like longing — it was why Combeferre thought they may have a chance in the first place — but he also looked heartbroken.

"I slept with Enjolras," Grantaire said bluntly. "Twice."

Combeferre blinked. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, I figured," Grantaire smiled but it was so bitter and regretful it made Combeferre ache. "So, we can forget about this, okay? It's fine. And I get it if you don't want to spend so much time around me, for awhile. Just don't...I'll get it if you don't want to see me for awhile, okay? But, I mean, if we could keep a lunch with Jehan or Feuilly or someone every once in awhile or something, I'd appreciate..."

Combeferre couldn't stand it; he reached out and took Grantaire's hands, holding both firmly. Grantaire stopped speaking immediately and stared at him.

"The only way you will lose my friendship is if you no longer wish for it, Grantaire. I don't think you know how much I value, how much I value you," Combeferre told him gently. "You have been exceedingly kind to me these past months —"

Grantaire made a noise to interrupt but Combeferre squeezed his hands and pressed on. "I know it's not something we speak of, that you would be there as much as possible for any one of us and think nothing of it. I know saying so makes you uncomfortable and I apologize for that but please, just let me say thank you. And know that I wouldn't jeopardize your friendship for anything less than the ardent belief that we would be happier together than as we are now."

Combeferre looked down briefly at their hands and rubbed his fingers over Grantaire's knuckles. "You already make my life better, Grantaire. Being with you already makes me so much happier than I was before."

"Stop," Grantaire said. He didn't pull away but his shoulders hunched defensively he wouldn’t look at Combeferre. His breathing was uneven and his voice was slightly ragged.  

Combeferre could not tell what Grantaire was thinking or feeling, if he was upset or angry with him. Or both. Grantaire was kind. He was talented. He would go out of his way to help his friends. But only as long as no one mentioned it. He sabotaged himself whenever people noticed he wasn’t living up to his reputation of being a argumentative, unreliable drunk and he couldn’t take a compliment without turning it into a fight. Combeferre knew that, he praise seemed to hurt him as much as an insult would but he wished he could make Grantaire feel how much he valued him.

Combeferre wouldn't press Grantaire any further to accept it, it would only end up hurting them both, but he did not let go of Grantaire's hands.

"I apologize,” Combeferre said. He waited, listening to Grantaire’s breathing even out. “I would like to know what happened, if you wouldn’t mind speaking of it. And unless you and Enjolras have an understanding I’m unaware of, I am not giving up on the idea of being able to kiss you. Because I very much want to."

Grantaire took a breath and when he looked up his smile was sarcastic. Defensive. "You've got a very interesting method of seduction there, 'Ferre."

Combeferre looked at him, raised a single eyebrow and said, deadpan: "I'm thorough."

Grantaire laughed, startled but genuine. Combeferre smiled back at him. He loved hearing Grantaire laugh. He wanted to taste the sound on his lips — he always wanted to kiss him recently — he wanted to cup Grantaire's face in his hands, but he squeezed his hand instead and said: "Let me get a beer and we can talk about this, if it's all right with you."

Grantaire swallowed. For a moment, Combeferre thought he was going to make another joke and back away from entirely. But then he seemed to steel himself, looked at Combeferre squarely and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Grantaire thought whatever he was going to tell him would drive him away, Combeferre realized. Combeferre wanted to reassure him but he knew no matter what he said, Grantaire wouldn't hear it. Combeferre could only prove him wrong by staying.  

Grantaire brought Combeferre a beer and a new one for himself. Combeferre said nothing, though he knew it meant Grantaire had drained the first. He took bottle from Grantaire and settled on the couch across from him, leaving it unopened. He suspected Grantaire would finish them both.

They were both silent for several minutes.

"So," Grantaire said, voice brittle. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you want me to kiss you?" Combeferre asked.

Grantaire looked away but he answered: “Yes.”

Combeferre's grin was brilliant. Grantaire flushed slightly, when he glanced back and saw it. He started to pick at the label of his beer bottle.

"Why don’t you think we should pursue this?" Combeferre asked.

"Oh, there's a long damn list of reasons you shouldn't get involved with me," Grantaire said. He took a long drink. "We can start with I slept with your best friend."

Combeferre nodded. "I am surprised I didn't know that."

"Me too, actually," Grantaire said. "It last year, when your aunt died. You were away from a couple weeks,” he hunched in on himself a little more, “And I guess it wasn't important enough to mention."

Combeferre stifled a sigh, exasperated with them both for a moment. They all knew Grantaire’s self esteem was shaky, even Enjolras, but Enjolras had never acknowledged how much of an impact he could have on Grantaire and Grantaire never liked to acknowledge how much he took Enjolras’ words to heart. Combeferre didn’t think Enjolras ever meant to hurt Grantaire — he was always left blinking in confused disbelief when Grantaire drank himself into a stupor over an argument that went too far — but he could be vicious and Grantaire pressed when others would have backed down.

Combeferre did wonder why Enjolras hadn’t mentioned that something had happened between them. It was unlike him, if only because he told Combeferre everything. But...Combeferre knew he had been distracted at the time. He had been very close to his great aunt, she had lived with Combeferre and his parents for nearly a decade before she died, and her unexpected death — she had fallen down her front steps and lingered in a coma for a week — had thrown him. He imagined there were many things he had missed in the wake of that.

"I don't think anyone else knows," Grantaire said. "The first time was after Bahorel's birthday party. Half of us were high. I was pretty fucked up. It was Bahorel's birthday, you know? Eponine gave him some good kush and Bahorel always shares and they had enough alcohol to stock a liquor store at his house. We were both drunk. Enjolras remembers it better than I do. I only have these flashes," Grantaire said. "I was too drunk to...anyway, I blew him, apparently, and then I passed out in his bed. And it was really fucking awkward in the morning when he had to tell me what happened. I was still in my fucking jeans. But I figured, fuck. He told me I hadn't...pushed him or anything and obviously passing out before you get your pants off is a failed hook up but I knew that I had no chance with him in the first place — I mean, you guys all knew but I'm not stupid he was obviously not interested and I knew it would make him uncomfortable if I even brought it up so I never did, ever. I tried so hard to fucking hide it from him so he wouldn't be...fuck. I mean, it was drunk sex. It was a mistake. I could handle that. At least he didn't end up going home with a stranger who might have hurt him. He wasn't as fucked up as I was but he was still really drunk."

"But then it happened again and I didn't...We were sober," Grantaire grinned and it was horrible, "as sober as I get, anyway. It was after a meeting, Feuilly and I were finishing up posters for that stupid rally where Bossuet broke his arm and then Feuilly had to leave and it was just Enjolras being manic about his speech and me and I went to say goodbye and he just looked at me and asked me if I was interested in...fuck. I don't know. He wanted to know if I was doing anything, he was stressed and wanted to...burn that off I guess. I still don't know why he asked me."

“But. Whatever. We fucked around again and I thought maybe..." Grantaire stopped. He laughed a little, bitterly, and rubbed a hand over his face. “It was stupid, how much I loved him. How much I still fucking feel for him. And I always knew that. I knew he was never going to love me, he didn’t even like me most of the time. I’m not an idiot. I’ve never believed the stupid stories where the lovesick, coward ends up with the girl or whatever of his dreams, even if it’s just to die in her arms. I knew he wasn't interested in me that way. I could tell and I left him alone. I didn’t want to fucking inflict myself on him. I never asked him for anything. And the first time I could write off, you know? Because we were so drunk and I didn’t even really remember it, it didn’t feel real. But then he asked me, the second time, I didn’t, I wouldn’t have ever asked him for anything and I thought he had to have known that and I just thought maybe..."

He stopped again and drank the rest of his beer too quickly. He stayed hunched over for a moment after he had put the empty bottle back on the table, staring at it.

"I just thought maybe I was wrong, you know? That maybe...he liked me enough to want to try to...I don't know. Date. Or something. Just. I thought...It was stupid. I know better," Grantaire repeated, shaking his head. "And he disabused me of the notion pretty fucking quickly the next day.”

Something must have shown on Combeferre’s face because Grantaire shook his head and made a motion with his hand as if to stop Combeferre’s thoughts. “Don’t. It’s fine. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t mean or anything. I asked him if he wanted to go for coffee and he said he didn't have time, he needed to double check some permits and I said maybe next time and he...kind of looked at me funny? Then he left. Just left. But I’m a fucking delusional fool and I still thought maybe...But then he came back that night and he was flustered and apologetic and said we had to talk and put an end to that. He just said he was aware of my feelings for him and he did not return them. And he could not see himself returning them. And he didn't think we ought to sleep together anymore because it was unfair of him to get my hopes up, that he hadn’t meant to. It had been a mistake. He even apologized. It was actually pretty gentle, for him — he asked me if he could call Joly or Jehan after he told me he could never love me and didn’t even snap when I told him to go fuck himself. I fucking did call Joly after he’d left but I wasn’t fucking telling him that. And that was that. I went to the next meeting out of spite, he treated me exactly as he had before, didn’t even comment when I got spectacularly drunk, and then we carried on as usual. Because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?"

Combeferre sat for a moment and tried to remember coming back, still a bit heart sick, definitely distracted. He tried to remember if he had noticed any changes between Grantaire and Enjolras. Grantaire had been drinking more, sleeping around more, and Combeferre remembered worrying because Joly had started sitting with his chair pressed against Grantaire’s so they were touching, arms pressed together on top of the table, like he had in second-year, before they both stopped coming to meetings for months. But instead of guarding them like sentinels, Bossuet had sat with them and matched Grantaire drink for drink and Musichetta had fussed and ruffled his hair and forced food on him constantly. Enjolras hadn’t commented on it, but none of them did, after second-year, and he still responded when Grantaire challenged him, they still got into shouting matches that mostly stuck to politics and their incompatible philosophical differences. Grantaire had been perhaps a bit sad, obviously angry with himself about something, but...that wasn't really a change, unfortunately. It wasn’t enough for Combeferre to notice something had changed.

Combeferre wanted to be angry with Enjolras. And he was. He did not think he could stop himself from being angry with anyone who hurt Grantaire now. He doubted Enjolras had meant to hurt Grantaire but he had. He had been careless and, Combeferre thought, somewhat willfully oblivious. Enjolras was not a fool. He didn't have the inclination nor the patience for dealing with romantic relationships — when he wanted to have sex, he generally hooked up with friends and had a long standing agreement with Courfeyrac — but he had always made it clear that it was not a relationship, just sex. And even Enjolras hadn't been completely oblivious to Grantaire's feelings for him. But he had always dismissed it as a silly crush, something that Grantaire should get over if he hadn't already. He had never understood the depth of Grantaire's feelings for him; he had never really understood Grantaire.

Combeferre couldn't imagine what he was thinking. It was possible Enjolras had felt guilty over their initial encounter — he knew from Courfeyrac that Enjolras was slightly obsessive about giving as good as he got in bed and it didn’t sound like the first night had been particularly reciprocal — and stressed over the rally and Grantaire had been the only one there...Yes, Combeferre could see Enjolras convincing himself it was a good idea. He wondered who Enjolras had talked it through with when he began to realize something was wrong — and immediately resolved to talk to Courfeyrac — and how quickly he would have moved to fix things when he understood what he had done.

If that was the case, Combeferre was reasonably certain Enjolras had not mentioned it to him because, firstly, Combeferre had not been in an entirely good place at the time and he hadn’t wanted to burden him with an issue Enjolras would have seen as resolved and, secondly, because he felt at least a little bit guilty about his actions and wanted to forget them as quickly as possible.

"I'm sorry," Combeferre said gently. He took Grantaire's hand and squeezed it, then passed Grantaire his unopened bottle. "I know how much you care for him. That must have hurt you a great deal."

Grantaire looked at him carefully, as if waiting for Combeferre to laugh at him. Combeferre waited, hoping Grantaire wouldn’t laugh at himself and dismiss the whole thing. When Combeferre said nothing more, Grantaire sighed and shrugged. "Sometimes I... want to be wrong. You know? And I let myself think maybe I was even though I knew it wouldn't have worked anyway. I just wanted to be wrong for once. But obviously we would have just fucked each other up. He gone off to save the world and I'm...here. Me."

Combeferre thought knowing, as Grantaire said he did, made it hurt no less. He moved closer to Grantaire and put his hand on his knee.

"I'm not sure of that," Combeferre said. "But I am very glad you are here."

Grantaire's eyes widened a little in surprise. Combeferre didn't push any further but he didn't remove his hand.

"You're joking," he said flatly.

"I would not joke about this with you."

"You still...? Why in the world would you want me?" Grantaire asked. He honestly couldn't believe it. "Why the fuck -?"

"I like you," Combeferre interrupted. Grantaire froze again. He knew he couldn't deflect Combeferre with sarcasm, not when Combeferre was this serious, he wasn't even trying, but he looked painfully uncomfortable. "I like you, R."

"I slept with your best friend," Grantaire repeated.

Combeferre thought what happened was rather different from the way Grantaire seemed to mean it but he wasn’t going to mention that.

"I don't understand why that precludes me from dating you. Jehan slept with Courfeyrac before he dated Bahorel."

Grantaire snorted. "Everyone's slept with Courfeyrac. Marius slept with Courfeyrac."

"I haven't," Combeferre said.

"Me either," Grantaire admitted. "That still isn't the same. Jehan and Bahorel weren't really dating. They were fucking around. It didn't mean anything and it obviously wasn't long term. That's not what I’d want with yo-"

Grantaire stopped talking abruptly and looked away. Combeferre leaned in further and said quietly: “That’s now what I want with you either. I want what we’ve had so far, and more. I want you to ban me from my own kitchen but I want to be able to lean over the counter to kiss you when you’re messing it up. I want to end up holding all your gear because you never actually use any of it while you climb up a fire escape to get a good shot and I don’t want to feel guilty about checking out your ass when you do. I want to come home and know I’m going to see you. I want to kiss you. I want to be with you.”

Grantaire looked stunned. His hands were shaking, a little. “I’m...Combeferre. You know I’m not a good bet. I’m a fuck up and dammit, you know me. You’ve seen what I get like and it’s going to happen again, fuck. We all know that. Why the fuck would you want to try dating me?”

“You’re right, I do know you. I have an idea of what I’m asking you for and how it might be hard. I’m not oblivious to your depression and what it can mean,” Combeferre said. “I still want to be with you. I like you. Being with you makes me happy. I still want to try. I don’t think anything you’ve said precludes us seeing if dating works for us.”

"It probably does," Grantaire said, and Combeferre hated it because his voice was not self loathing or self pitying, just matter of fact. “You should probably run screaming.”

“I am not going to,” Combeferre said firmly. “You’ve not dissuaded me, R. I still want to kiss you. I want to be with you. And I do not believe once I start, I’m going to want to stop. But if you don’t want to try, we don’t have to. We never have to speak of this again if you don’t want to. I won’t disappear if you just want to be my friend. I will still be your friend if you don’t feel the same. It’s your choice.”

Combeferre wrapped his hands around Grantaire’s and squeezed them to stop their shaking. He took a breath. "Do you want to kiss me, Grantaire?"

"Shit," Grantaire said, fumbling to squeeze Combeferre’s hands back. "Yes, of course, I want to kiss you! Fuck. You’re, Combeferre, you’re perfect."

"You know I’m not,” Combeferre said, voice quiet. “May I kiss you?"

"Fuck. Yes."

Kissing Grantaire was both exactly and nothing like Combeferre had expected. Grantaire’s lips were chapped and dry and his face was stubbled unevenly. He was hesitant, at first, Combeferre could feel him trembling, had to coax his mouth open, had to be the one to deepen the kiss. He tasted slightly bitter, of alcohol, and stale. His nose was a little too big and pressed against Combeferre's cheek awkwardly at first. He accidentally knocked Combeferre's glasses askew.

But he moaned, a soft, needy sound, into Combeferre's mouth and his hands clutched tight and possessive at Combeferre's side before gentling and sliding to his back. He gasped when Combeferre's fingers twined in his hair and when he started to kiss back it was like something had been ignited inside him.

Their lips only parted when they needed to breath and then only inches. Grantaire's arms still held Combeferre close, as close as Combeferre's hands clutched him. To Combeferre's surprise, Grantaire caught his breath first. He chuckled lowly, pressing kisses to Combeferre's jaw until Combeferre's fingers curled in his hair and pulled him back up to kiss him again.

They lost track of time.

"You should stay the night," said Grantaire much, much later. They were laying on the couch together, Combeferre covering Grantaire. They hadn’t stop kissing since they started. "You should...we don't have to do anything. I just want... I don't want you to go."

Combeferre laughed breathlessly. Grantaire's pupils were blown. His lips were swollen and even more cracked than before. He had not let go of Combeferre. His fingers were wound so tightly in his shirt it was probably ruined.

"We're in my apartment," he said, grinning, almost giddy. He kissed Grantaire again, swallowed his moan. "You should stay. Please."

"Mmm. You’re not getting rid of me tonight," Grantaire managed, between kisses.

"Good," Combeferre said. Grantaire laughed a little and Combeferre chased his mouth to see what it tasted like when he smiled. Grantaire obliged, looking dazed but happy as Combeferre's mouth sealed over his again, his hands in Grantaire's hair, Grantaire's fingers digging into his back.

It was strange, suddenly being both bold and shy with each other. They couldn't stop touching each other, even when Combeferre insisted they needed to eat, they ended up with pizza sauce smeared over their fingers and mouths because it seemed so much more important that they stay connected. But when they crawled into Combeferre's bed together — having silently come to the mutual decision that they would not have sex that night — they both blushed and laughed awkwardly as they stripped down to their boxers and, in Grantaire's case, one of Combeferre’s undershirts. It wasn't even the first time they had shared a bed — Combeferre had platonically shared a bed with all of his friends at some point — but it was the first time they were sleeping together because they couldn't stand the thought of letting each other go.

It felt weirdly natural to wake up with Grantaire's head resting on his numb arm and it only made Combeferre smile when Grantaire groaned and tried to burrow into his side when Combeferre tried to shake feeling back into it. Normally Combeferre got up as soon as he woke but he couldn't imagine doing anything but laying there beside Grantaire, just so he could smile at him when Grantaire blinked awake and see Grantaire smile back, curls mussed, face soft with sleep. Combeferre wanted to talk more, wanted to reassure Grantaire that he still wanted him as much as he said he had last night, and it seemed easier for Grantaire to take, somehow, laying tangled up in Combeferre’s blankets and limbs, ducking his head down to rest against Combeferre’s collarbone when he couldn’t meet his eyes. They stayed in bed for a long time.

Grantaire insisted on making breakfast — and for once smiled when Combeferre offered to help instead of shooing him out to sit at the counter. About the only thing Combeferre could do properly was cut vegetable and even then they kept bumping into each other. Grantaire didn't seem to care, he kept using it as an excuse to steal kisses.

The first omelettes were burned beyond recognition when Combeferre blew Grantaire against the kitchen counter, revelling in how responsive — and loud — he was. Grantaire insisted they clean up before trying again and jacked Combeferre off with such painful thoroughness in the shower his knees gave momentarily when he came and they nearly crashed to the floor.

It was nearly 2 p.m. before they ate — a rushed breakfast sandwich and coffee in the Starbucks down the street from Combeferre's apartment. Grantaire had a job to get to that afternoon, otherwise Combeferre doubted they would have left his apartment that day.

But he did and they had to and Grantaire laughed, self-conscious but genuine enough, when Combeferre kissed him goodbye at the subway and asked if he could bring dinner over tomorrow, after his classes.

Once Grantaire was gone, Combeferre got on the subway himself. He bought two more cups of coffee and pounded on Courfeyrac's door until Courfeyrac opened it, looking bleary and confused.

"Ferre?" Courfeyrac yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up. "What's up? What's wrong?"

Combeferre loved him as much as he ever had in that moment. He handed him a cup of coffee and said: "I'm in love with Grantaire."

Courfeyrac blinked and stepped back to let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> First Les Mis fic. Written for Combeferre x Grantaire week on tumblr so I thought I'd get the first chapter up before that's over.
> 
> Title is from Shake, Shake, Shake by Bronze Radio Return.


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